


RGB/Reader: Real

by SugarTheKitty



Category: The Property of Hate
Genre: i got no fucking clue what i'm doing here, reader is an OLD HERO I DONT KNOW WHAT HAPPENED TO HER BUT SHE AINT THE CURRENT ONE, the "she" is NOT THE CURRENT HERO, this is an OLD HERO, this isn't about anyone in particular
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-08
Updated: 2018-12-07
Packaged: 2019-07-08 16:49:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15934493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SugarTheKitty/pseuds/SugarTheKitty
Summary: edit: now with better pronouns!i wasn't expecting to post this anywhere so it's kind of a fucking mess lol!basically, dancing and internal monologuethe reader is a hero who is "too real" for make-believe.it isn't the current hero!!! i have to clarify that!!! this is, like, the past!!!maybe i'll write an actual x reader about that topic eventually, but for now this is just like, shitty poetry-esque internal monologuing from 3 months agothis writing is kinda cringey just fyiit's me trying to get a grasp of how to properly write rgb and what he's like but i am very bad at character analyzation so this whole thing might just be ooc as hell i got no clueanyways enjoy i guess





	1. She/Her/Hers

It was everything that he should have been doing instead.

Her hand was outstretched, and her face was set in expectation: her eyes on him, her lips set in that neutral slight-part that one always saw people use in photos; her mouth naturally falling that way.  
The stereo sat expectantly, and somewhat off to the side. The marks of old age were clear on the radio-boombox mix: the handle was a little crooked, the corners slightly beat up, long scratches evident on the paint.  
It was dark, but not the kind of dark where one had to hear to see. It was the kind of dark that left his screen softly illuminating the air in front of him, and her jewelry reflecting the glint of the moon. The white lights looked about the same, but there was a definite difference to them that one would notice, yet couldn’t explain.

That seemed to be something constant with the pair, wasn’t it? She was impossibly natural; he was entirely artificial.  
Her offered hand, her wishful expression, the way the light framed her face that made her just slightly imperfect—it was all entirely genuine. It was _real._  
His screen, the way he danced around every subject until finally reaching a conclusion that was just nearly true, the fact that that grin was the only way to tell he was thinking. The fact that that grin could never tell what he was really thinking.

He was fake. There was no other word for it. He could twist and curl his words all he liked, but at the end of the line—he was fake.  
She was real, and he was fake.  
That was how it had always been, hadn’t it? How had he not noticed?

Once, he asked her if she wanted to be a hero, and she responded with a “sure” so nonchalant. Nonchalant, yet certain. The kind where one hadn’t given any thought to a question before, but knew the answer instantly—like if someone asked her what color her hair was.  
When she’d shrugged, and laughed, and said “Oh, well, I won’t be leaving anything behind except a few electricity bills” even when faced with the decision that would sweep her away. When he warned her, and then never warned anyone else. When he had asked why she’d just up and leave like that, because she wasn’t meant to be here, because he had the worst feeling about her being here—and she’d grinned and replied with nothing but the truth. When she’d spoken of what she wanted and what she had and what she was so fearlessly. She didn’t hide anything. Everything she was was plain as day, and that surprised him so much that he’d forgotten to notice up until she answered.

It had shaken him to the core. She _terrified_ him, with her bone-chilling honesty and piercing eyes and natural ability to know what someone meant when they said it, even if it was under a few layers of mystique and patented charm. And she knew it.  
He was completely enchanted by her. And she knew that, too.

She was _real._ She knew all her fears, and had them bulleted down on a list on her wall. Her doubts were carved out as the initials on her necklace. She was not fearless, or unstoppable, or particularly remarkable left on her own. But she knew herself, in some way, and accepted the things she would come to know in time. She thought it just fine that she didn’t know herself entirely.  
In all, she did not belong in the land of make-believe. After all, she came from the real world.

The magician and the mage. The charmer and the lover. The imaginary friend and the girl down the street.

But she would banter with him all the same.  
“RGB, you’re lost again,” she broke the silence, words piercing through his thoughts. He realized he’d left her hand waiting there, for how long now? Ten seconds? Fifteen seconds? It was incredibly rude, just leaving her like that, and he was about to reply with something witty when she continued.  
“Don’t just leave me hanging.” She broke out in a grin, the contours of the light on her face moving, and she was still just short of perfect.

It was a yes or no option: dance with her, but it meant more than that. She knew that, and he began to suspect that she’d done it on purpose. The implications of dancing with her meant much more than a quick foxtrot; it was simple, and still complicated. It was both of them.  
He didn’t have to say anything other than “well, shall we then?” when he took her hand and pulled her to him; a quick snap with the other hand started up the stereo. He knew where to put his hands, because that was something he was expected to know. She knew where to put her hands, because she liked to dance.

So the liar and the hero fell further in.


	2. He/Him/His

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> he/him version!  
> i meant to do this for a while, damn
> 
> i realized how confusing this would be since both jeebs & the reader are he/him in this one so what we're doing is making the reader italicized. genius

It was everything that he should have been doing instead.

_His_ hand was outstretched, and _his_ face was set in expectation: _his_ eyes on him, _his_ lips set in that neutral slight-part that one always saw people use in photos; _his_ mouth naturally falling that way.  
The stereo sat expectantly, and somewhat off to the side. The marks of old age were clear on the radio-boombox mix: the handle was a little crooked, the corners slightly beat up, long scratches evident on the paint.  
It was dark, but not the kind of dark where one had to hear to see. It was the kind of dark that left his screen softly illuminating the air in front of him, and _his_ jewelry reflecting the glint of the moon. The white lights looked about the same, but there was a definite difference to them that one would notice, yet couldn’t explain.

That seemed to be something constant with the pair, wasn’t it? She was impossibly natural; he was entirely artificial.  
_His_ offered hand, _his_ wishful expression, the way the light framed _his_ face that made _him_ just slightly imperfect—it was all entirely genuine. It was _real._  
His screen, the way he danced around every subject until finally reaching a conclusion that was just nearly true, the fact that that grin was the only way to tell he was thinking. The fact that that grin could never tell what he was really thinking.

He was fake. There was no other word for it. He could twist and curl his words all he liked, but at the end of the line—he was fake.  
_He_ was real, and he was fake.  
That was how it had always been, hadn’t it? How had he not noticed?

Once, he asked _him_ if _he_ wanted to be a hero, and _he_ responded with a “sure” so nonchalant. Nonchalant, yet certain. The kind where one hadn’t given any thought to a question before, but knew the answer instantly—like if someone asked _him_ what color _his_ hair was.  
When _he’d_ shrugged, and laughed, and said “Oh, well, I won’t be leaving anything behind except a few electricity bills” even when faced with the decision that would sweep _him_ away. When he warned _him_ , and then never warned anyone else. When he had asked why _he'd_ just up and leave like that, because _he_ wasn’t meant to be here, because he had the worst feeling about _him_ being here—and _he'd_ grinned and replied with nothing but the truth. When _he'd_ spoken of what _he_ wanted and what _he_ had and what _he_ was so fearlessly. _He_ didn’t hide anything. Everything _he_ was was plain as day, and that surprised him so much that he’d forgotten to notice up until _he_ answered.

It had shaken him to the core. _He_ _terrified_ him, with _his_ bone-chilling honesty and piercing eyes and natural ability to know what someone meant when they said it, even if it was under a few layers of mystique and patented charm. And _he_ knew it.  
He was completely enchanted by _him_. And _he_ knew that, too.

_He_ was _real._ _He_ knew all _his_ fears, and had them bulleted down on a list on _his_ wall. _His_ doubts were carved out as the initials on _his_ necklace. _He_ was not fearless, or unstoppable, or particularly remarkable left on _his_ own. But _he_ knew _himself_ , in some way, and accepted the things _he_ would come to know in time. _He_ thought it just fine that _he_ didn’t know _him_ self entirely.  
In all, _he_ did not belong in the land of make-believe. After all, _he_ came from the real world.

The magician and the mage. The charmer and the lover. The imaginary friend and the boy down the street.

But _he_ would banter with him all the same.  
“RGB, you’re lost again,” _he_ broke the silence, words piercing through his thoughts. He realized he’d left _his_ hand waiting there, for how long now? Ten seconds? Fifteen seconds? It was incredibly rude, just leaving _him_ like that, and he was about to reply with something witty when _he_ continued.  
“Don’t just leave me hanging.” _He_ broke out in a grin, the contours of the light on _his_ face moving, and _he_ was still just short of perfect.

It was a yes or no option: dance with _him_ , but it meant more than that. _He_ knew that, and he began to suspect that _he'd_ done it on purpose. The implications of dancing with _him_ meant much more than a quick foxtrot; it was simple, and still complicated. It was both of them.  
He didn’t have to say anything other than “well, shall we then?” when he took _his_ hand and pulled _him_ to him; a quick snap with the other hand started up the stereo. He knew where to put his hands, because that was something he was expected to know. _He_ knew where to put _his_ hands, because _he_ liked to dance.

So the liar and the hero fell further in.


	3. They/Them/Theirs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> they/them version!
> 
> also--feel free to DM me if yall want more pronoun options

It was everything that he should have been doing instead.

Their hand was outstretched, and their face was set in expectation: their eyes on him, their lips set in that neutral slight-part that one always saw people use in photos; their mouth naturally falling that way.  
The stereo sat expectantly, and somewhat off to the side. The marks of old age were clear on the radio-boombox mix: the handle was a little crooked, the corners slightly beat up, long scratches evident on the paint.  
It was dark, but not the kind of dark where one had to hear to see. It was the kind of dark that left his screen softly illuminating the air in front of him, and their jewelry reflecting the glint of the moon. The white lights looked about the same, but there was a definite difference to them that one would notice, yet couldn’t explain.

That seemed to be something constant with the pair, wasn’t it? They were impossibly natural; he was entirely artificial.  
Their offered hand, their wishful expression, the way the light framed their face that made them just slightly imperfect—it was all entirely genuine. It was _real._  
His screen, the way he danced around every subject until finally reaching a conclusion that was just nearly true, the fact that that grin was the only way to tell he was thinking. The fact that that grin could never tell what he was really thinking.

He was fake. There was no other word for it. He could twist and curl his words all he liked, but at the end of the line—he was fake.  
They were real, and he was fake.  
That was how it had always been, hadn’t it? How had he not noticed?

Once, he asked them if they wanted to be a hero, and they responded with a “sure” so nonchalant. Nonchalant, yet certain. The kind where one hadn’t given any thought to a question before, but knew the answer instantly—like if someone asked them what color their hair was.  
When they’d shrugged, and laughed, and said “Oh, well, I won’t be leaving anything behind except a few electricity bills” even when faced with the decision that would sweep them away. When he warned them, and then never warned anyone else. When he had asked why they’d just up and leave like that, because they weren’t meant to be here, because he had the worst feeling about them being here—and they’d grinned and replied with nothing but the truth. When they’d spoken of what they wanted and what they had and what they were so fearlessly. They didn’t hide anything. Everything they were was plain as day, and that surprised him so much that he’d forgotten to notice up until they answered.

It had shaken him to the core. They _terrified_ him, with their bone-chilling honesty and piercing eyes and natural ability to know what someone meant when they said it, even if it was under a few layers of mystique and patented charm. And they knew it.  
He was completely enchanted by them. And they knew that, too.

They were _real._ They knew all their fears, and had them bulleted down on a list on their wall. Their doubts were carved out as the initials on their necklace. They were not fearless, or unstoppable, or particularly remarkable left on their own. But they knew themselves, in some way, and accepted the things they would come to know in time. They thought it just fine that they didn’t know themselves entirely.  
In all, they did not belong in the land of make-believe. After all, they came from the real world.

The magician and the mage. The charmer and the lover. The imaginary friend and the crush down the street.

But they would banter with him all the same.  
“RGB, you’re lost again,” they broke the silence, words piercing through his thoughts. He realized he’d left their hand waiting there, for how long now? Ten seconds? Fifteen seconds? It was incredibly rude, just leaving them like that, and he was about to reply with something witty when they continued.  
“Don’t just leave me hanging.” They broke out in a grin, the contours of the light on their face moving, and they were still just short of perfect.

It was a yes or no option: dance with them, but it meant more than that. They knew that, and he began to suspect that they'd done it on purpose. The implications of dancing with them meant much more than a quick foxtrot; it was simple, and still complicated. It was both of them.  
He didn’t have to say anything other than “well, shall we then?” when he took their hand and pulled them to him; a quick snap with the other hand started up the stereo. He knew where to put his hands, because that was something he was expected to know. They knew where to put their hands, because they liked to dance.

So the liar and the hero fell further in.


End file.
